Oh, the Horrors of Teenypop!
by Ace of Hearts
Summary: Three WWE wrestlers get suckered into doing a reality series for an upstart television network, by a suspiciously familiar "Mr. Mulder" who insists on converting them into a...*drumroll* boy band! Dun dun dun!
1. Chapter One

*A/N: Okay, this was originally a Creed story that I wrote way back in the spring, before stupid FF.net decided to wipe out all musicians' fics! Grr! Anyway, since I'm so proud of this fic--it's one of my personal favorites--I've decided to rewrite and add to it as a WWE fanfic and pray that those evil Literary Nazis--urk, that is, the marvelous Fanfiction.net moderators; please don't delete my account! x_x--don't decide to get rid of the Wrestling section as well! Enjoy ^_^ 

* * *

Rey Mysterio loved Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings meant brunch buffets, they meant sleeping in until ten-thirty in the morning, they meant tearing the Sunday papers apart looking for a good comic strip, but best of all, Sunday mornings meant relaxing. Just taking it easy, lounging around the hotel suite he was sharing with Chris Jericho and Gregory Helms, no emergency phone calls from Vince to send him off on yet another promotional appearance, not too much of Jericho bugging the hell out of him since he spent the entire day chasing after pretty girls and getting the ego slapped right out of him by Stephanie afterwards...and the best part of all, no media paparazzi scaling over the fences and bugging the hell out of him. Jericho might miss all the fame and publicity, but Mysterio sure didn't. Ironically, it was Mr. Huge Rock Star/King of the World himself who'd scared away all the people trying to recruit them to do guest appearances... 

**Cue Flashback...**

_ "...It's _Saturday Night Live_..." the TV was blaring at top volume, to which none of the wrestlers except Shannon Moore and Jeff Hardy paid the least bit of attention to._   
_ "...Musical guest: Britney Spears!" Stacy Keibler perked up._   
_ "...And your host..." Jericho perked up._   
_ "...Random Guy Who Played Ally McBeal's Love Interest For Two Episodes!" the SNL announcer declared grandly, to which a few crickets chirped in response before the audience broke out in scattered, half-hearted applause, forced out of courtesy._   
_ "Blah!" Jericho threw the remote control at the television screen; thankfully for Vince McMahon (since he owned every bit of furniture backstage), the grumpy blonde Canadian's aim was off by a mile, and the remote flew through the air and landed into a nearby fishtank._   
_ "You know, the producers of _Saturday Night Live_ are really running out of remotely interesting guest hosts," Jericho complained, while the remote control made glug-glug-glug noises as it sank to the bottom of the tank. "This is the gazillionth time they've had some random assclown who guest starred on some loser American sitcom host the damn show!"_   
_ "So?" Undertaker spoke up coldly, bluntly, not the least bit interested in Jericho's dilemma._   
_ "So? They should ask _us_ to host the show!" Jericho exclaimed. "I mean, how come Rock is the only one who's gotten a chance to host it? What about the rest of us WWE Superstars? We've got more starpower than those actors, we're much better looking...the list goes on and on. Why haven't they called yet?"_   
_ "Chris, they _have_ asked us to host--twice," Shannon spoke up. "Only thing is, neither one of those two episodes made it past rehearsals." Jericho huffed, looking offended, and placed his hands on his hips._   
_ "Oh, so now we're not good enough for those damn Yankees, but the random assclown who made one lousy cameo in _Friends_ is?" he sulked, insulted._   
_ "Actually, our starpower has nothing to do with it," the smaller blonde spoke up delicately. He wrinkled his nose, as he added in a pointed tone, "However, it might have to do with the fact that we never got to finish either shows, the first time because _you_ jumped the lead singer of Bon Jovi when Stephanie remarked she found him sexy, and the second time also because _you_ found out that the musical guests that night were Metallica, and spent the entire show stalking the poor guys like a crazed teenybopper on a Justin Timberlake mission, trying to get autographs and convince them to jam with you."_   
_ "Oh, oops," Jericho remarked sheepishly. "Hmm, no wonder they never called back."_

**End Flashback...**

So, anyway, Rey Mysterio loved Sunday mornings, especially since they meant he could finally get a chance to complete his mission for the perfect haircut-- 

_ Ding dong._   
Mysterio stopped short of listing off the things he loved about Sundays. He swore, as in the back of his mind the masked cruiserweight ran through the list of people who could possibly be interrupting his sacred Sunday ritual of planning his next hairstyle, before reluctantly shuffling over to the suite's double doors and flinging them wide open.   
"What?!" he barked, somewhat rudely. But hey, give the poor little guy a break--he's had his very sacred ritual of planning his next hairdo interrupted, after all, on his favorite day of the week. Meanwhile, framed against the doorway was a tall, dark-haired man with matching dark eyes and features that were rather familiar to Mysterio. The man, dressed in a conservative black suit, extended his hand. As Mysterio obligingly shook it, the man in the doorway spoke.   
"Good morning, Mr. Mysterio. My name's Mulder, and I'm here to talk to you and two of your fellow World Wrestling Entertainment Superstars about that charity show you offered to be a part of a year ago." Mysterio's face scrunched up--although one couldn't exactly see it behind his mask.   
"Hey," the masked wrestler murmured critically, "aren't you that guy from _The X-Files?"_   
"No," Mulder replied quickly--a little _too_ quickly in Mysterio's opinion. 

At that moment, Gregory Helms shuffled his way out of his bedroom, still wearing his bathrobe and fuzzy pink bunny slippers, and with his dyed green hair sticking out in every angle imaginable. Yawning, he nodded a greeting in Mysterio and Mulder's direction, before continuing his trek toward the bathroom for his daily morning shower.   
"So, as I was saying," Mulder began, "I believe you and two of your friends signed a contract one year ago to volunteer in a charity show that would benefit--" Suddenly, there was a crashing sound, before Helms, sans his bunny slippers (he'd ditched them in an effort to run faster) came dashing out from the direction of the bathroom, wide awake and with an awestruck expression on his face.   
"Hey, aren't you that guy from--" he started to say, fumbling around the pockets of his terry cloth robe for anything that might serve as an autograph book.   
"No!" Mulder snapped irritably. The superhero's face fell.   
"Darn," he grumbled, and tossed away the napkin he'd been hoping to use as an autograph paper.   
"Anyway, now that we've gotten all that identity crisis out of the way, I was trying to inform Mr. Mysterio here that about year ago, him, you, and another individual by the name of Chris Jericho had signed a contract for a charity event that would benefit--" Mulder began, trying to dive back into his sales pitch. 

Just then, the doors to the suite opened, and Chris Jericho jogged in, decked out like the ideal rock star runner in a garishly bright red T-shirt and equally shiny turquoise sweatpants.   
"Morning," Jericho started to say, as he pushed past the trio gathered at the doors and began to unlace his shiny purple running shoes. Jericho suddenly turned around, studying Mulder critically, before opening his mouth to speak.   
"Hey, aren't you--" he started to say.   
"NO!" Mulder yelled irritably. "No, no, and no! I'm _not_ that guy from _The X-Files!" _Jericho discreetly backed away from the raving lunatic.   
"All right, all right, calm down," the Canadian wrestler muttered. "Sheesh." 

Mulder, after calming down (he kind of had to, seeing how his face was turning blue from all the yelling he was doing) coughed and cleared his throat longer than necessary, before continuing on.   
"Ahem. As I was saying, exactly one year ago, you three--Rey Mysterio, Gregory Helms, and Chris Jericho--signed a contract with the XYZ Network, agreeing to be a part of a televised charity show that would benefit a select few," he began, mumbling out the last part of his sentence in an incomprehensible string of whispered words.   
"Huh?"   
"What?"   
"Is the XYZ Network kind of like the ABC Network?"   
Mulder sighed. It looked like he would have to explain further.   
"Well, you see, ratings for the XYZ Network have been on the decline ever since 1998, exactly five weeks after the television network first started," he began. "And about a year ago, the executives of the network thought up the idea of a celebrity reality show, called _The Other Side Of The Coin. _It is basically a reality TV series where the show's personnel train a group of celebrities in one profession--say, opera singing--and try to pass them off as people with completely different occupations--say, rugby."   
"What's the charity part?" Mysterio broke in impatiently, having been trying to make plans about his latest hairstyle but unable to do so with Mulder--who was supposedly _not_ the guy from _The X-Files_--ranting on about the XYZ Network.   
"The charity part would be the ratings that the celebrities suckered into this deal produce, which in turn will go to line the pockets of the network executives and help them raise their salaries to more money than you and I could possibly imagine," Mulder explained. Helms raised an eyebrow at hearing that.   
"That doesn't really sound very charitable," he pointed out bluntly. Clearing his throat, the green-haired superhero added, "Besides, I don't remember signing any deal with any XYZ Network, and I've got a superheroic memory." Mulder shifted on his feet.   
"But it's really quite the exhilarating experience," he protested, flying into his sales pitch. "I mean for example, our first show was a huge smash when we successfully passed off that kid from _Power Rangers_ as a professional boxer!"   
"You did?" Helms looked interested.   
"Oh, yeah, absolutely," Mulder assured him. "In fact, our Ranger can tell you himself how much fun that experience was...but I never _did_ bother to find out the phone number of his hospital room."   
"Wa...wait a minute. This guy's in the _hospital?!"_ Jericho's voice rose several octaves, ending in a painfully high screech that rivaled Stephanie's infamous shriek. Mulder shifted uncomfortably.   
"Well...he's a one-hundred-thirty-pound actor, and his first match up was against this mean former heavyweight champion--who shall remain unnamed--and when the poor guy accidentally pissed off his opponent...It's not as if his ear can't be sewn back on!" Mulder sputtered defensively. Mysterio had heard enough, and was ready to show Mulder the exit.   
"Thank you for giving us this opportunity to participate in your show, it sounds wonderful, but I'm afraid we're going to have to train for our upcoming European tour in, um, three years," he said quickly, propelling Mulder out the door. Mulder, however, stood his ground on the doorway.   
"But you people signed a contract, and you can't back out of it now," he said.   
"I don't remember signing any damn contract," Jericho snapped irritably.   
"But _I_ do," Mulder informed him. He suddenly whipped a videocassette out of seemingly nowhere. "And...I've got the proof!" 

Mulder slid the tape into the VCR and pushed Play. There were several minutes of static, before a picture finally showed up.   
"Remember, Scully," the dark-haired man onscreen--who bore an eerie resemblance to Mulder, the three wrestlers noticed--"the truth is out there!" Cue to eerie _X-Files _music.   
"Hey! You _are_ that guy from _The X-Files!"_ Helms cried out indignantly, his head whipping from the Mulder on the TV screen to the Mulder standing before the trio.   
"Eh heh, you don't need to see that," Mulder tee heed nervously, and quickly pressed Fast Forward. After several minutes, they finally came to the part that Mulder wanted to show his victims--er, clients.   
"Ah hah! Here we are," he cried triumphantly, and the three men leaned in to watch the so-called proof that they had signed this deal with the XYZ Network. 

On the widescreen TV, a fat, bearded man in his fifties filled up the television monitor.   
"Eeew! Look at the boogers hanging out of his snout!" Helms cried out.   
"Shush!" Mulder snapped irritably, as Helms made faces and gave him the evil eye. Meanwhile, back onscreen, the fat, bearded fifty-year-old man backed a few inches away from the camera so that the viewers could take notice of the crappy homemade mask pulled over his bald head. His greasy, sweat-stained T-shirt bore the words Guy From WWF--Urk, That Is, WW_E,_ written crudely with black Magic Marker in the worst chicken-scratch handwriting anyone had ever seen.   
"My name is Grey Mysterio, and I'm that really short dude from the WWE," the fat, bearded man in his fifties with the luchador mask over his head and the WWE T-shirt barely holding back the blubber jiggling around the area that was supposedly his stomach, slurred out. At this, both Helms and Jericho turned to stare at the real _Rey_ Mysterio in disgust.   
"Ew! Rey, I can't believe those were _your_ boogers!" Helms sniffed. Mysterio, meanwhile, was gawking openmouthed at the television screen.   
"They're not!" he defended himself. Harrumphing, he added haughtily, "Those 'boogers' happen to be my...um, manly nose hairs! So hah!"   
"Yeah, so, like, I'm that short dude with the funny mask from the WWE, and I'm about to sign this very important contract with the XYZ Network," the fat impostor onscreen continued. "Erm, by signing this very important contract, I am guaranteeing that I and two of my buddies--Christian Jericho and that weird superhero kid--will do an episode for the sure to be hit series, _The Other Side Of The Coin."_

"And, Stop," Mulder murmured, as he pressed said button on the VCR, right before the crappy homemade luchador mask burst and popped off 'Grey' Mysterio's shiny bald head.   
"So, there you have it, gentlemen," he spouted smugly. "You did indeed sign a contract, and there's no backing out of it."   
"Thanks a lot, Mysterio!" Helms huffed. "Now we have to do some stupid reality series with the XXX Network!"   
"That's XYZ, Mr. Helms," Mulder hastened to correct him.   
"Yeah, whatever," Helms muttered carelessly, with Mysterio giving him the evil eyes for his previous remark.   
"So...the first show consisted of successfully turning some _Power Ranger_ kid into a boxer," Jericho spoke up cautiously. "What do you have in plan for us?" Mulder's grin didn't exactly put him at ease.   
"Well, after much consideration, the XYZ Network has decided to turn you into...a boy band!" he announced grandly. Dun dun dun!   
"A boy band?" Dun dun dun! Jericho gasped. Mulder nodded firmly as he replied, "Yes, a boy band." Dun dun dun! Just then, Helms turned around.   
"Who's turning into a boy band?" Dun dun--*Okay, I've really got to stop doing that!*   
"You are," Mulder informed him.   
"No! Not again!" Helms squeaked out. Mulder looked around at the three faces surrounding him, each expressing certain degrees of paleness and sheer and utter terror at those dreaded two words: Boy band!   
*Silence*   
*Silence*   
*Silence*   
*Crickets begin to chirp*   
*What? I said I was going to stop doing that whole dun dun dun thing!*   
"Well, then, my work here is done. Don't forget, you're to report to the XYZ studio at eight o' clock sharp Wednesday morning," Mulder said happily. The trio of WWE wrestlers didn't bother to respond, as all three were still frozen in shock over the realization that they would have to become a boy band. Mulder started to leave, strutting past the frozen Superstars and out the door. Oh, well. At least it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. 

Just then, Mulder poked his head back into the room, and chirped brightly, "Oh, and by the way, one of you is going to have to bleach his hair bright banana blonde, one of you is going to have to pierce his eyebrows, and one of you is going to have to wear his boxers hitched up to his nipples!" Hmm, it looked like it just got worse--but at the very least, Mulder's announcement snapped the trio out of their boy-band-induced daze.   
"What?!"   
"What?!"   
"What if I don't wear any boxers?"   
At this, all eyes turned to the speaker (I'll let you guess who he is).   
"Urk...I mean, what?!" 


	2. Chapter Two

A luxurious white stretch limo leisurely pulled up at the curb, rolling to a complete stop in front of a modern-looking glass-and-mirror studio. Chris Jericho was the first one out of the limo, looking pretty normal except for the shiny Metallica boxers wedgie he'd been given as part of the boy band makeover. Jericho stumbled a bit, but overall succeeded in making his way toward the stylish glass sliding doors. Next out was Rey Mysterio, whose appearance hadn't changed at all, save for a number of piercings tacked onto the eyebrows of his luchador mask. Mysterio gingerly strolled over to the XYZ Network studio, seemingly fascinated with his pierced mask. The two wrestlers stood waiting impatiently at the studio doors for the last member of their band. Minutes passed. Crickets chirped. Finally, an irritated Jericho hollered, "Helms! Get your superheroic ass out here!" Silence. And then, a whiny, "I'm not coming! I can't let my fans see me like this! And what if I get mobbed by a bunch of teenyboppers?" Jericho rolled his eyes.   
"Give me a break," the dark-blonde Canadian muttered under his breath, and absently tugged at his boxers wedgie.   
"Hey, Gregory, is that...um, that guy who played _Batman_ I see over there?" Mysterio spoke up, and had to cringe. Nobody could possibly fall for something that lame.   
"Really? Where?!" Helms squealed, falling for the bait hook, line, and sinker. There was the sound of mad dashing, a bumping noise, a subsequent, "Ouch! My head!", before Gregory Helms finally made his way out of the limo, previously green hair freshly dyed a bright banana blonde, scrambling to get a glimpse of his favorite superhero. Helms's head swiveled eagerly from left to right as the superhero searched for the actor, then began to frown when the closest person with short hair--excluding himself and Rey-Rey--was a freaky Elvis Presley impersonator wannabe.   
"Hey! I don't see Batman anywhere...!" Helms began to pout. 

Just then, Mulder came out of the studio building. He stood there for a while, surveying the scene, before he was satisfied with what he saw.   
"Good, you're all here on time," Mulder said pleasantly. Taking notice of Helms's hair job, he commented, "Oh, how nice, I see you've gotten your bleach job, as per requested."   
"Grumblegrumblegrumble**Yes**grumblegrumblegrumble," came the superhero's growled reply. Mulder happily ignored the grumpiness in Helms's voice, and chirped zestily, "It looks great, it looks fabulous, it looks like--"   
"It looks like a sunburned banana," Jericho remarked, snickering, as Helms turned around and gave him the evil eye. Mulder shot the Canadian a warning look, before clearing his throat and abruptly changing the subject.   
"Why don't we go inside?" he suggested. "I'll have to introduce you to your new manager for this show, and we have to get the first taping underway in fifteen minutes." And with that, Mulder turned on his heel and went inside, motioning for the three wrestlers to follow him. 

"...And there we have the original neck brace that Jaguar Forest wore--he's Tiger Wood's second cousin removed's uncle's daughter's brother-in-law's niece's husband, you know--from when that clumsy little circus acrobat broke his neck on our very first show," Mulder babbled on, while Jericho limped along in his boxers wedgie, Helms tried to cover up his freshly bleached hair with the nearest object he could get his hands on (it turned out to conveniently be a psychedelic pink Santa hat with an electric orange trim), and Mysterio continuously played around with his eyebrow rings. Just then, the newly madeover WWE Superstars and Mulder came to a stop in front of an office, and the wrestlers' guide twisted the knob and pushed in. Pacing restlessly around inside the office was a pretty young woman in her late twenties to early thirties, with long tawny-blonde hair and a pleasant smile.   
"Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to your new manager for this show," Mulder spoke up grandly. "Her name is Rachel Green, and she'll be the one who's going to get you guys a deal with a record company."   
"But the WWE already has its own recording label--" Mysterio began to protest.   
"Oh, that's all right, this is only temporary. I'm only going to be your manager for the show," Rachel assured him smoothly.   
"Yes, and I believe that your new manager's on her way now to get you guys signed up to a pop label," Mulder chipped in pointedly. Rachel got the hint, and cleared her throat.   
"Okay, then. So, I guess I'm off," she excused herself, and strode out of the building in her quest to get the soon-to-be-named boy band signed to a pop label. Mulder turned around to face the three young men standing awkwardly in the office, and chirped brightly, "Okay, now we need to come up with a new name for your new boy band."   
"Ooh, ooh, I've got it!" Helms's hand shot up, as if he were back in kindergarten with old Mrs. Porter again.   
"Yes?" Mulder urged pleasantly.   
"How about...no...or what if we called ourselves...uh uh, that won't work either...oh, I know, what do you think of...hn, that's not gonna do the job..." Helms muttered to himself. "I'm sorry, I guess I don't know after all."   
"That's all right," Mulder reassured him. "After all, you're the same people who've entertained millions of fans every night with your dazzling brilliance on the mic (supposedly!), I'm sure you can come up with a catchy name for a boy band." 

Two hours later, the same geniuses who'd spouted such classic catchphrases as, um, "Raw is Jericho!" (?? x_x!) were still brainstorming. Finally, Mulder became irritable, as he snapped impatiently, "Oh, come on! Are you trying to convince me that the best thing the same people who claim to be huge rock stars and superheros can come up with for a name for a frickin' bubblegum pop band is In Synch?!"   
"Well, if you weren't so picky about all my suggestions, we could have named our new band five million times by now!" Helms huffed, sticking his lower lip out. Mulder let out an impatient grunt.   
"You suggested calling yourselves Smallpox!" he shrilled. "What the hell is that?"   
"You know, Anthrax, Smallpox...unless you prefer Bubonic Plague?" Helms offered, and then lit up as he realized that he'd come up with yet another name, tying him with Jericho and placing him at two suggestions more than Mysterio. Before Mulder could tear his hair out in frustration, Jericho thankfully interrupted to pitch in with an idea of his own.   
"Oh, oh! I've got it! I've got the _perfect_ name for our band!" he chirped, sounding proud of himself.   
"And what would that be?" Mulder asked tiredly, hoping it wasn't going to be anything near the vicinity of Vitamin C or The Boo Hoo Dolls, and wondering to himself why exactly he had even bothered to take up this job in the first place.   
"Why not call this new band Jericho? You know, since Jon Bon Jovi named his band after himself, I can't see why we can't name this new band after me," Jericho suggested.   
"There's just one problem with that," Helms broke in. Jericho looked insulted.   
"What?" he demanded grumpily, wondering what could possibly be wrong with his suggestion.   
"Jericho is a stupid name for a band. Now Hurricane, _there's _something you don't hear in rock everyday. Stylish yet simple. Cool yet not cliché. Suave yet..." Helms began to ramble, listing off all the good qualities of his moniker.   
"Okay, okay, I get the point, you've got a cooler stage name than I do!" Jericho yelled huffily. "But I'm the pretty boy of the band, and the pretty boy always gets the most say, since he's the most popular!"   
"Hah! Yeah right!" Helms scorned, puffing his chest out and running a hand through his new bottled blonde hair. "Girls always go after the shy blonde guy!"   
"Do not!" Jericho yelled, sticking his tongue out childishly at Helms.   
"Do too!" Helms retorted, mimicking Jericho's immature gesture.   
"Do not!"   
"Do too!"   
"Not!"   
"Too!"   
"Not!"   
"Too!"   
Just then, Mysterio broke in to interrupt the shout-fest.   
"Um...there isn't any chance you two will consider naming the band Mysterio, is there?" he wanted to know. Jericho and Helms stopped shouting for a second and turned around as one, zooming in on Mysterio as the new enemy.   
"NO!" they both yelled together. Mysterio discreetly backed away a couple--or several--feet from the duo.   
"Eh...I kind of thought so," he mumbled to himself. 

* * *

Meanwhile, over at the lobby of the Lè Major Teenybopper Labels record company, Rachel was sitting patiently on a dull gray couch, awaiting her turn to meet with the executive in charge. Finally, the nineteen-year-old bleach-blonde receptionist bounced over to the tawny-haired manager of the currently unnamed boy band, and chirped, "Like, the boss is, like, totally ready to see you, Miss Raquel." Rachel forced out a smile.   
"That's Rachel," she corrected the bimbo, clearing her throat. The receptionist shrugged.   
"Like, whatever," she muttered. "Like, come this way, please." 

Rachel was led into a lavishly furnished executive's office, which boasted so many platinum and gold records that she had to wonder whether they were real, or whether the snobby-looking middle-aged man seated behind the antique desk had purchased them at the local K-Mart.   
"Yeah, like, Miss _Rachel_ Green is here to see you," the receptionist introduced her, and then left the office, quietly closing the door behind her. The executive stared boredly at Rachel as she took a seat, and fingered his pencil-thin black mustache.   
"Yes? What can I do for you, Miss Green?" he demanded in a nasal, obviously fake French accent. Rachel cleared her throat, before diving into her sales pitch.   
"Yeah, I'm trying to sign a trio of very promising pop stars to a label, and since your company boasts a most impressive list of clients, I was hoping that--" she began to say.   
"Do they have big boobs?" the executive wanted to know. Rachel was caught off-guard, completely stunned and bewildered by the words that had come out of this snotty-looking little man. She wondered if she had heard him correctly. Surely he wouldn't have the audacity...   
"Ex...Excuse me?" she asked, blinking rapidly   
"You heard me the first time. Do these bimbos have big boobs?" the executive demanded. "Because if they don't, there's a plastic surgeon right next door."   
Rachel lowered her head, flustered, and cleared her throat again as she tried to construct some comprehensible sentences in her head.   
"Um...well, you see...the funniest thing...They're a male group," she finally stammered out in a tiny voice.   
"Oh." The executive immediately canceled all plans for a guest appearance at a Thanksgiving gravy bowl wrestling match at the local Big Guns Strip Club. "Well then, can they dance?"   
"Well, you see, they're very talented vocalists and performers, and if you could just wait a couple of weeks--or months--I'm sure that the band will learn--" Rachel started to say.   
"I'm sorry, Miss, but we've got around twenty boy bands scrambling to be signed, and unlike your bunch, _they_ actually know how to dance _right now,_ so if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the manager of the next big thing in pop girl groups, T&A," the executive snapped haughtily.   
"But you don't understand, unlike T&A, my band won't have to rely on a gimmick--in your case, two-cent sluts--to draw in concert crowds--" Rachel started to protest.   
"Go on, now, there's the door," the executive prodded.   
"But...hey, if you want sex appeal, you've got it, my band is made up of three former professional athletes who're in tip top shape, not to mention the fact that they've all got perfect tans and--" Rachel tried to plead.   
"Listen, we're not interested in male sex appeal; these are eight-year-old girls we're trying to sucker, and they'll get embarrassed if they see three shirtless guys on the CD cover," the executive interrupted nastily.   
"But--" Rachel made a last-ditch effort to grovel for a contract. The executive pointed at the door.   
"Go!" he barked, seemingly having lost his phony French accent for a while. Rachel's eyes began to mist over.   
"Okay," she choked out, and scrambled to get out of the office. 

* * *

"JERICHO!" Jericho yelled, raising his voice yet another octave, which just a minute ago, Mulder and Mysterio had deemed humanly impossible.   
"HURRICANE!" Not to be outdone, Helms increased the volume of his voice as well, until it teetered dangerously on the edge of supersonic. A few dogs began to howl in the distance.   
"JERICHO!"   
"HURRICANE!"   
"JERICHO!"   
"HURRICANE!"   
"WILMA!" 

At this, even Jericho and Helms stopped their yelling, and all eyes turned to gape at Mysterio, who blushed under his luchador mask and mumbled, "What? I was beginning to feel left out." Mulder let out an irritable grunt, as he threw up his hands in the air in frustration and growled, "Forget about it, you two! From now on, you'll be called..." He paused for a while to think, but after even he couldn't come up with a good name, he snatched the first one that came to mind. "Seven Degrees Celsius!"   
"Huh?"   
This, time, all eyes turned to stare at Mulder.   
"Isn't that ripped off from 98°?" Helms wanted to know.   
"Isn't that ripped off from _Saturday Night Live?"_ Jericho pointed out.   
"Well, have you two literary geniuses any better ideas?" Mulder challenged grumpily, and quickly added, "And no, don't tell me your last names, or In Synch, or Smallpox, or Vitamin C, or any of those others!" At this, both Jericho and Helms fell silent. Mulder crossed his arms, satisfied.   
"Fine, then," he snapped. "Unless you prefer 3 Count v. 2.0, then from now on, your boy band will be called Seven Degrees Celsius!" 

At that moment, a dejected Rachel arrived, and Mulder glanced up and at her eagerly, demanding, "So? Did you get the deal?" Rachel lowered her head.   
"No," she admitted in a small voice. "I mean, I really tried to, but he wouldn't listen to me, and kept on asking if the band had big boobs, and then he kept on saying something about T&A and eight-year-old girls and a shirtless Gregory Helms--oh, no, wait, that was me--and...and..." Rachel was on the verge of tears. Mulder reached over and said comfortingly, "Hey, it's okay. We all fail pathetically at some point in our lives." Rachel looked up and sniffed.   
"So...you're not mad at me?" she asked hopefully. Mulder smiled kindly.   
"Of course I'm not mad," he told her. "Here: just to show you how not mad I am at you, I'm giving you a new assignment."   
"Really?" Rachel perked up. Mulder nodded.   
"Yup. From now on, you've been demoted to answering machine operator," he told her. Rachel's face fell.   
"Oh." A pause. And then, "You mean I'll be checking people's messages?" Mulder smiled.   
"No, you're going to be the one who goes _beep,"_ he told her, propelling her out of the room. 

He turned back and caught the surprised looks of the WWE Superstars, now known as Seven Degrees Celsius, mistook it for something else, and hastened to assure, "Oh, don't worry, I've already found your replacement." He then opened the door, just as somebody was about to knock on it, and revealed a very familiar glow-in-the-dark-cargo-pants-and-red-fishnet-tank-top-clad young woman standing framed behind the doorway. She had fiery red hair and a green-blue-and-purple tattoo of what appeared to be an island monster on her shoulder and arm.   
"All right, Seven Degrees Celsius," Mulder introduced, motioning to the tall, sultry redhead standing beside him. "Meet your new manager, Lita." 


	3. Chapter Three

"Now, Lita, you'll have to really scramble to get the deal for Seven Degrees Celsius, since Rachel was supposed to have already gotten it five hours ago, and the show only has a one-hour time slot, so we really can't afford to waste half of that hour showing the attempts at getting a record deal," Mulder spoke earnestly. The red-haired femme fatale nodded, and vowed, "Don't worry, Mr. Folder, I'll get the job done!"   
"That's Mulder!" Mulder yelled out after the sultry redhead, as Lita and her glow-in-the-dark cargo pants dashed out of the studio. Mulder and the newly named Seven Degrees Celsius watched anxiously to see what Lita would do. Her intentions became clear, as she made a mad dash for her car, dropped her car keys down the sewer in her haste, looked worriedly in all directions for a nanosecond, before deciding in the blink of an eye what to do to solve her problem. Unfortunately, Mulder realized in dismay, it involved pulling the driver out of the nearest car, beating him up to a bloody pulp, and taking off in what appeared to be a brand-new--and now stolen--Mercedes-Benz. Mulder and his new pop band watched in open-mouthed amazement, as Lita gunned the engine of her stolen car and peeled off the curb at a hundred-and-two miles per hour, leaving the rightful owner lying by a ditch. 

Mulder shrugged.   
"Oh, well," he mumbled. "At least with that attitude, we can ensure the girl will get a damn contract." He turned around, and motioned for his boy band to follow.   
"Now, Seven Degrees Celsius, we're going to ship you off to a dance studio, and..." Mulder stopped blabbing, when he realized that only one member of said boy band had followed. Turning around irritably, he began to holler, "Jericho and Helms, will you two quit drooling after Lita and get back here! So what if she can beat up guys and wears a thong, she's still your manager--!"   
"Wait a minute--that crazy redheaded chick was wearing a thong?" 

Mulder stared in dismay, as Mysterio made a full one-eighty and sprinted over to join Helms and Jericho by the window, who were now pressing their noses against the glass and squinting to get a better look at the tiny little red dot that was the Benz that Lita had hijacked. 

* * *

A good half hour after Lita and her glow-in-the-dark cargo pants had long since disappeared in the hijacked Benz did Mulder finally manage to pry away the men of Seven Degrees Celsius into a shoddily-rigged dance studio.   
"We're on a tight budget, but we're hoping that once Rachel--urk, Lita gets the contract, the record label will provide a real dance room and recording studio," Mulder spoke up. Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio looked around at the shabby room and poorly-waxed wooden floor, then at each other, then at their dingy surroundings again, and promptly tried to split. Fortunately for Mulder but unfortunately for the three wrestlers, they all made a break for the door at the same time, and thus got squished together to the point where not one of them could get through.   
"Get back in here, you three stooges!" Mulder scolded. "How many times do I have to keep reminding you, you can't see Lita's thong from here!" And he reached over and pulled all three back into the room, slamming the door firmly shut.   
"Now," Mulder began, "since the network was too cheap to get you three a choreographer, I'm afraid you're going to have to learn all the dance steps by yourselves." Jericho turned around, a skeptical expression on his face.   
"I don't know about these two assclowns beside me, but I'm a huge rock star," he remarked arrogantly. "Now, us huge rock stars may headbang onstage and get into trouble offstage, but we don't do the twirly thing." Helms and Mysterio nodded along enthusiastically to their self-proclaimed frontman's words.   
"That's okay," Mulder beamed. "If Britney and 'NSYNC could learn them, then surely you three can as well."   
"But we don't have a choreographer," Helms pointed out wisely. Mulder whipped out a tape from hammerspace, and pushed it into the VCR.   
"No problem," he said. "You'll learn by observing this video." And he pushed Play. 

"...And up, and down, and up, and down...All right, ladies. Work those thighs!" a nasal, high-pitched, and nauseatingly enthusiastic female voice chirped shrilly. Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio took one good look at the video that they were supposed to learn their pop dance routine from, and their jaws dropped straight to the ground.   
"That's a friggin' aerobics video!" Helms complained, boggle-eyed at all the Spandex onscreen. Mulder shrugged, before cheerfully handing out Spandex shorts and flimsy tank tops.   
"I told you we were on a cheap budget," he reminded the three wrestlers. "This video will just have to do until my eight-year-old niece brings in that tape of hers with the "Bye Bye Bye"video she recorded off of MTV."   
"Oh, great," Jericho grumbled, staring at his Spandex suit distastefully.   
"Now suit up you three and start waving your arms in a silly fashion," Mulder ordered. "C'mon! Feel the burn!"   
"...And up, and down, and up, and down..." the overly enthusiastic aerobics instructor onscreen chirped. 

* * *

Lita paced around the reception room restlessly, while the bleached blonde bimbo sitting behind the desk boredly polished her nails, occasionally allowing a wary, dumbfounded look or two at the fiery redhead wearing a hole into the ground.   
"Um, like, maybe you should wait outside, or, like, something," she finally suggested. Lita turned around and growled, "I don't recall asking for your opinion!" The blonde receptionist shrugged, and went back to polishing her nails. The frustrated Lita grouchily tossed back a headful of red hair, before seething, "Now, I've been waiting for two hours, and the little S.O.B. still won't see me, what's the deal?" The receptionist shrugged.   
"Like, I don't know," she muttered. "I'm just supposed to, like, stand here and look sexy."   
Lita let out a frustrated growl, digging her fingernails into her temples, before sinking down on the couch and grudgingly resuming her long and tiresome wait. 

* * *

"...That's it, that's it! Feel the burn! Come on, ladies, work those buns!"   
Offscreen, Jericho, clad in a pair of rather, um, snug-fitting Spandex shorts that left little to the imagination, stopped flapping his arms for a while and turned to Mulder to complain, "I'm tired of doing this girly version of the grind!"   
"It's called aerobics, and from what I've heard, it's really fun," Mulder defended the tape. Helms muttered sarcastically, "Sure it is; I mean, I just can't think of anything more fun than jumping around in Spandex and doing the Chicken Dance."   
"Hey, my eyebrow piercings are starting to jiggle!" Mysterio observed.   
"And my Spandex shorts are cutting off the circulation to my legs!" Helms whined.   
"And how come I still have to keep this stupid boxers wedgie? Do you know how hard it is to do the Macarena in Spandex while wearing a pair of boxers hitched up to your nipples?" Jericho grumbled. Mulder rubbed his temples with his hands, as he rummaged around a drawer, mumbling to himself, "Must find aspirin. Must find aspirin. Must find aspirin. Must find..." 

Just then, there was a brief knock at the door, before one of the XYZ cameramen peeked his head into the room.   
"Package for a Mr. F. Mulder," he intoned. At the 'F. Mulder' part, Helms stopped feeling the burn and snapped up to give a suspicious glance or two at the supposedly _not_ from _The X-Files_ Mulder. Mulder quickly took the package, and slammed the door shut. Ripping apart the brown paper, he pulled out a black videocassette, and pumped his fist in the air when he realized what it was.   
"Finally! It's about time Mary-Kate-Ashley sent in that 'NSYNC video of hers!" He breathed a sigh of relief. The three Spandex-clad wrestlers, meanwhile, stopped flapping their arms and legs, and turned to stare at Mulder.   
"So, like, do we finally have a proper instructional video?" Mysterio ventured cautiously. Mulder grinned.   
"Not quite," he admitted, stopping the aerobics video and taking it out of the VCR. "But this should get you started." And he pushed the tape into the VCR and pressed Play. 

"...Bye Bye Bye!"   
A chorus of girly male voices intoned, as Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio's eyes bugged out.   
"C'mon, Seven Degrees Celsius!" Mulder ordered, like a drill sergeant. "Start imitating those fruits in the video!" 

* * *

Back at Lè Teenybopper, Lita was still pacing around restlessly. Her head snapped up in indignation, as the receptionist ushered in a pair of blonde, busty bimbos who were practically popping out of their tiny tube tops, into the executive's office. What got to her was that the two giggly airheads had barely arrived five minutes earlier and were already granted a meeting with the men behind the teenybopper juggernaut, whereas she had been waiting for damn near five hours and had yet to even get a glimpse of the executives running the record label.   
"Hey! How come those bimbos get a meeting with the executive after only waiting for five minutes, while I've been waiting for, what, five whole hours and nothing's come out of it yet?" Lita demanded angrily, glaring daggers at the receptionist, who eeped and hid behind her desk.   
"Um, like, I totally have no clue," she admitted.   
"Well, would it help if I were bursting out of my top?" Lita wanted to know. The receptionist shrugged.   
"Like, I don't know," she said. "But, like, if it does help, let me get you a tiny little tube top." And she hopped off her seat and bounced over to the back. Lita grinned wickedly; the bimbo had given her the opening she wanted, as she stood up and made a direct beeline straight for the executive's office. 

Meanwhile, rifling through the collection of tiny tube tops, the blonde receptionist wondered why she suddenly heard noises resembling bimbos screeching and furniture being thrown around. Shrugging, she added, "Must be, like, one of the new songs by, like, that girl pop group, T&A," before resuming her search for a tube top that would, like, totally not clash with that redhead's hair. 

* * *

"...And that ain't no lie, baby bye bye bye..." 'NSYNC continued to sing, um, harmonize, um, drone. Meanwhile, standing in front of the TV screen, Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio continued to try their best to imitate the boy band's bizarre arsenal of 'dance steps.' After the 93425027 chorus of 'bye bye bye', Helms's ears could tolerate it no longer, and the now-blonde former superhero promptly fainted dead away. Jericho paused amidst all the twirling and what he thought was spelling out the lyrics using American Sign Language, long enough to glare at Helms collapsed on the floor and growl, "Sure, take the easy way out, why don't you?" 

Mulder, meanwhile, with a pair of ear plugs snugly fitted over his ears, called out, "Come on, Jericho! Get back to work!" Jericho muttered something incomprehensible and surely not very flattering under his breath, before reluctantly resuming twirling around the dance floor and flapping his arms. 

* * *

The snotty, wannabe French executive of Lè Teenybopper stared in wide-eyed fear, as some crazed, tattooed redhead wearing ripped scarlet fishnet and glow-in-the-dark cargos pounded his two blonde sluts into the floor, before throwing them out the window.   
"What...what do you think you are doing?" he demanded, feebly making an attempt at a French accent as he poked around his desk for the Security button. Lita, meanwhile, stopped admiring her handiwork for a while and turned to advance on the executive.   
"I've been waiting for five hours to say this," she began. The executive swallowed hard, before squeaking out a guess.   
"This is a holdup?" he eeped, as a confused expression appeared on Lita's face.   
"Huh? No, why would I want to rob some pop label?" she wanted to know. "No, I want you to sign the band I'm supposed to be managing to a temporary fifteen-day pop contract." The executive finally found his red Security button, and pushed it. Now reassured that this crazy redhead was going to be carted out sooner or later, he regained his air of pompous arrogance, and replied snottily and in a bad French accent, "I'm sorry, but we're not signing anyone at the moment."   
"But you don't understand, this is only a temporary deal for a reality TV series--" Lita started to explain.   
"You heard me the first time, we're not signing any new artists at the moment," the executive replied arrogantly. "Especially not a group stupid enough to be managed by _you."_ He smiled in relief, as he saw a pair of security guards rounding the corner and approaching the office. Lita's eyebrow, meanwhile, had begun twitching dangerously, as she growled in fury, "Excuse me?"   
"That's what I said," the executive replied. "Any boy band stupid enough to sign _you_ on as their manager, we're not interested in." Ah, the security guards were almost there. An outraged Lita stormed purposely over to the door, and slammed it shut, right into the guards' faces, knocking them out cold. The executive gulped, and pulled at his collar, as Lita locked the door and turned around with a terrifying expression on her face. Cracking her knuckles, the tattooed redhead growled in a deathly quiet voice, "I don't think you heard me right the first time. I _have_ to get this band signed." 

Meanwhile, back in the reception hall, the blonde bimbo was still searching for a suitable tiny tube top for Lita, when she suddenly paused. _There goes the sounds of furniture being tossed around and girly screams again,_ she thought to herself. Shrugging, she added, impressed, "Wow, T&A must, like, really be making an impression if, like, the boss is totally asking them to do a second song." And she promptly went back to searching for a tube top. 

* * *

"Bye bye bye..." 'NSYNC droned for the billionth time, as Jericho and Mysterio grimaced, both on the edge of fainting like Helms.   
"Come on, Seven Degrees Celsius," Mulder called out. "Show some effort!"   
"They're dancing on the walls and ceilings, for Christ's sake!" Jericho complained. "How am I supposed to copy that?" Mulder shrugged, as if he had no idea.   
"I don't know. Lean at an angle?" he suggested, before returning to his copy of _Sports Illustrated._   
"My eyebrow rings are jiggling again," Mysterio complained, stopping to try and steady said piercings. 

* * *

After she had beaten the snotty executive to a bloody pulp, Lita held up the poor black-and-blue man by the collar.   
"Now," she threatened, "unless you want a repeat of what happened earlier, you're gonna give my boys a contract and offer them a fully-equipped studio with which to record songs and shoot music videos!"   
"Okay, okay!" the poor executive squeaked out, bullied into signing the deal. Lita smiled in satisfaction, and let him go. The man promptly flopped to the ground like a Raggedy Andy doll that had just been fished out of the garbage disposal.   
"Great," Lita said happily, and both herself and her glow-in-the-dark cargos skipped out of the Lè Teenybopper offices, passing by the receptionist bimbo, who was _still_ searching for a suitable tube top. Lita got into her hijacked Benz, gunned the engine, and peeled off the curb at a fairly tame ninety miles per hour to give the good news to Mulder. 

* * *

Mulder stared with concerned eyes, as he absently pulled off his ear plugs.   
"Oh," he murmured mournfully, "this isn't good." 

Just then, Lita sprinted into the studio excitedly, waving a bunch of papers in the air.   
"I got it!" she cried. "I got us the pop deal!" Mulder turned around, and had to resist the urge to dance around and scream in delight like a little girl.   
"Great!" he yelled enthusiastically. He then turned to the three unconscious men on the ground, who had fainted after hearing one too many bye bye bye's being sung, um, harmonized, um, droned, and chirped, "They'll be so happy to hear the news--once they come to, anyway." 

* * *

Unfortunately for Mulder and Seven Degrees Celsius, however, beating up executives wasn't exactly the best way to get some exposure for one's boy band. They found that out the hard way, when they arrived at the studio Lè Teenybopper had prepared, ready to shoot Seven Degrees Celsius's first ever music video, only to find out that all the crew members and technicians were mail-order brides from Timbuktu who spoke not a word of English. Mulder glanced around in dismay.   
"Well...this isn't quite what I had in mind," he murmured, when Lita asked him what he thought of the job she had done. Turning to the tattooed redhead, he added, "Erm...I think it's about time I sent you off on that other assignment." At that, the lovely Lita blinked, confused.   
"What other assignment?" she wanted to know. Mulder racked his brain, but drew up a blank.   
"Well...I'll have my people think up something for you," he muttered, as he propelled Lita out the door. "But, uh, great job! At least we _got_ a pop deal." 

The three members of Seven Degrees Celsius, meanwhile, stared at their surroundings, dumbfounded.   
"So, now what?" Mysterio demanded. Mulder sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.   
"Don't worry," he assured the three men. "I've still got one final trick up my sleeve. It is now time to unleash my secret weapon on Lè Teenybopper." He then walked out of the studio, returning a few minutes later with a slim, pretty blonde.   
"Gentlemen of Seven Degrees Celsius," Mulder introduced, "meet your third--and, hopefully, _final--_manager: Miss Kelly Bundy!"   



	4. Chapter Four

During the time it had taken Mulder to send Lita off on an assignment where she wouldn't be given the opportunity to beat up executives, and contact Kelly's manager Bud Bundy to tell him that there was an acting job for his sister, the tall, dark-haired, in no way, shape, or form associated with _The X-Files_ man had done some serious thinking. Specifically, on why or how neither Rachel nor Lita had been able to successfully get a pop contract--that _didn't_ involve mail-order brides from Timbuktu--for Seven Degrees Celsius. And he had suddenly had an epiphany. Pushing aside the facts that Rachel had been too much of a pushover and Lita had...well, quite frankly, she'd kicked the crap out of the executive, and planting one's sneaker up someone's ass is no way to get a job with him. But anyway, aside from those two points, Rachel had gone into the executive's office dressed in a fashionably tailored gray silk suit, and Lita had busted her way in decked out in all her fishnet and glow-in-the-dark cargo glory. What Mulder needed was someone who flaunted her sex appeal, unlike Rachel who kept it fairly under wraps behind silk suits, and Lita who seduced one with her halter tops and her thongs, then proceeded to beat him up afterwards. And who better flaunted her sex appeal--_without_ kicking anyone's ass in the process--than Kelly Bundy? 

Kelly peeked her head into the room, wearing a black trench coat over her outfit.   
"Hi, I'm Kelly," she bubbled cheerfully, boasting a great big grin fitting for a toothpaste commercial. Mysterio, being the one closest to her, naturally began to return her greeting.   
"Hey, my name's--" he started to say, then let out an, "Oof!" when he was promptly shoved facedown onto the floor by the only male with long hair in the room, as Jericho zipped in to take Mysterio's place.   
"Hey, how _you_ doin'? I'm Chris Jericho, huge rock star," he greeted, and began to wish for his nice shiny pants and equally flashy checkered shirts rather than the ridiculously baggy jeans and white wifebeater that Mulder had forced him to wear as part of his pretty boy image.   
"Hi, I'm Kelly," Kelly repeated, her smile growing bigger, if that was even humanly possible. From the back, a still bleach blonde Helms chirped up brightly, "Hi, I'm Gregory!" before suddenly quieting down when Jericho turned around and shot him a glare, as if to say, _You got to look at Lita's thong first, so it's only fair that I get to flirt with Kelly first!_ Turning back around, he tried to remember the pick-up line he'd been working on, then gave up when he realized that he'd completely forgotten, and instead repeated his initial greeting.   
"Hi, I'm Jericho."   
There was a grunt from the floor, as Jericho reluctantly added, "And that's Rey Mysterio."   
"Thank you," Mysterio could be heard mumbling. 

Just then, there was the sound of someone clearing his throat, but when that didn't work and Jericho and Kelly continued to grin goofily at each other, Mulder spoke up pointedly, "Kelly is going to be your new manager, and I'm afraid she has to go now to get you signed to that pop contract with Lè Major Teenybopper Labels record company."   
"Oh, right," Kelly muttered, and started to bounce out the door, before Mulder quickly grabbed her arm and whispered fiercely, "Now remember, don't say a word, just hand him this note--" he thrust a slip of paper into her hand, "--and take off your coat. Got it?" Kelly made a saluting motion.   
"Aye, aye, captain," she sang out brightly. Mulder gave her a sour look.   
"You've got the wrong hand," he told her. Kelly glanced up, figured he must be right, and shrugged.   
"Okay, then. Gotta go," she chirped, unfazed, and bounced out the door and down the hall, getting into the shiny red Benz that Lita had hijacked earlier and driving off to the Lè Teenybopper offices. 

Mulder, meanwhile, turned around, satisfied that this time for sure, Seven Degrees Celsius would finally get signed on.   
"All right, you three," he began, motioning to Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio, "since this time you're going to shoot a legit music video for Seven Degrees Celsius, we're going to have to pick a song as your first single." Three blank stares met him in reply. Mulder blinked.   
"What?" he wanted to know.   
"Um..." Mysterio spoke up sheepishly, "we kind of sort of really don't have any songs written." When Mulder failed to reply, Jericho turned to Helms accusingly and snapped, "You know, we could have already gotten at least _one_ lousy song written by now, if the mighty superhero over here hadn't wasted all afternoon looking for that damn mutt of his!" At this accusation, Helms turned to face his frontman, guns a blazin'.   
"Hey, you leave Fido the Wonder Pup out of this!" he pouted. Mulder, meanwhile, was beginning to feel yet another incoming headache, and since he'd spent the better half of the day popping Tylenols, he really didn't feel like taking yet another pill. That, and he'd run out of Tylenol, and wasn't sure he wanted to make the switch to Excedrin.   
"Will you two just calm down?" he ordered. "How many times do I have to tell you two, pop bands aren't supposed to write their own songs, they just twirl around and do stupid dances, and look pretty for the millions of little thirteen-year-old teenyboppers! What do you think hired studio songwriters are for?" Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio looked blank at the hired songwriters remark, as if they had no idea what Mulder meant.   
"Hired songwriters are supposed to write songs for pop bands," Mulder repeated patiently. "Now, I'm sure that right now, our own writers, Mr. Austin and Mr. Angle, are working _very_ hard on coming up with an original single for you three."   
"I thought they just wrestled for the WWE like we did," Helms spoke up.   
_"I _thought they came here for a janitorial job," Jericho replied, shrugging.   
_"I_ thought they came along as Lita's redneck-and-ultra-dork tag-ons," Mysterio chipped in his two cents. At this, the other three men turned around to stare at him. Mysterio shrugged, and dug his hands into his pockets.   
"Well, I _did..."_ he mumbled grumpily. 

Meanwhile, cue the cameras back to Room 316, which was the hired songwriters' office, to reveal two muscly men in their thirties; one a fearsome-looking six-footer with no hair, a dark blonde beard, and a black T-shirt with a giant What? written on the front in white and a smoking skull painted on the back. The other looked relatively less harmless, with his equally bald head, bright blue eyes, and rather patriotic red-white-and-blue attire. The scary redneck bald one was Hired Songwriter Number One, Mr. "Stone Cold" Steve Austin, the less scary all-American bald one was Hired Songwriter Number Two, Mr. Kurt Angle. Right now, Steve Austin was working on a beer pyramid, while Kurt Angle was still on the phone, getting bossed around by his grandmother.   
"Ninety-nine cans of Steveweiser on the wall, ninety-nine cans of Steveweiser! What? I said, ninety-nine cans of Steveweiser on the wall, ninety-nine cans of Steveweiser! If Stone Cold Steve Austin were to drink them all--What? I said, if Stone Cold Steve Austin were to drink them all, ninety-nine new cans of Steveweiser on the wall! What? I said, ninety-nine new cans of Steveweiser on the wall!" Austin sang, horribly off-key, and tossed yet another empty can of beer at the pyramid. Meanwhile, over by the phone, Angle was saying into the mouthpiece, "Yes, Grandma, Karen and I _did_ get your Christmas cookies. They just came three months, late, that's all. But Grandma, I don't want to wear that bunny suit to your birthday party, what will everyone think? No, Grandma! I'm an Olympic Champion, darn it! I should be able to put my foot down! Yes, Grandma, I'll wear the bunny suit. And yes, I'm going to go wash my mouth out with soap right now." 

A little scrap of paper, titled, "Pop Songs For Seven Degrees Celsius" was lying forlornly on a little table, completely ignored save for a few beer and milk stains. 

* * *

Over at the Lè Teenybopper offices, the bimbo behind the receptionist's desk chirped, "Like, the boss is ready to see you, Miss." Kelly stood up and pranced her way into the office, and the receptionist closed the door behind her and went back to her very important duties of polishing her nails and wondering why that redheaded street girl never came back for her tiny little tube top. Meanwhile, inside his office, the wannabe French executive of the pop juggernaut glanced up at the trench-coat-clad Kelly in boredom, before demanding to know, "Yes? What can I do for you, Miss?" Kelly started to speak up, then remembered Mulder's instructions--specifically on how she wasn't to say a word--and chirped, "Oh, I'm not supposed to say anything; I just have to give this to you." And she handed over the note Mulder had thrust into her hands. The executive reluctantly accepted the piece of paper, and read what it had to say. In bold print, Mulder had written, SIGN. SEVEN. DEGREES. CELSIUS. TO. POP. CONTRACT. NOW!!! The executive felt like laughing out loud, as he started to say, "I'm sorry, Miss, but I've got an appointment with the manager of T&A, and..." Kelly then remembered the second part of Mulder's instructions, and said, "Oh, and I'm also supposed to take off my coat." And she stripped out of said coat, revealing the tiny red minidress she had on underneath. The executive's eyes boggled out, as he immediately grabbed a pen and a bunch of contracts.   
"I'll sign whatever you want," he drooled, having lost his phony French accent, while Kelly just stood there and preened, feeling proud that she had succeeded where both Rachel _and_ Lita had failed.   
"And they call me stupid," she muttered under her breath. 

* * *

Mysterio glanced at Jericho and Helms, as the two viewed the TV screen with such interest that he began to wonder whether he had missed anything. _Hmm, the storyline seems simple enough,_ Mysterio thought to himself. _A bunch of busty lifeguard bimbos in tiny red bathing suits save drowning fat people, then proceed to save the dolphins and find hidden treasure buried by pirates over five hundred years ago._ His nose scrunched up, as he added silently, _I wonder why they're so interested in this _Baywatch_ thing. Hmm, I wonder what they're thinking._ Jericho, meanwhile, was staring enraptured at the monitor, thinking to himself, _Hah! Helms was so totally wrong! There is _no way_ Carmen Electra is hotter than Pamela Anderson. Blondes all the way!_ His eyebrows furrowed, as he glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Helms, observantly studying the TV, and wondered to himself, _Gee, I wonder what the junior's thinking about._ Helms, meanwhile, was watching the screen as the trio waited for either Kelly to return with the contract or Austin and Angle to finally finish the first single that would go with Seven Degrees Celsius's first music video. _I'm hungry,_ he complained silently to himself, watching all the boobs bouncing on the screen. _Me want food, me want food, me want food...Huh, I wonder why I've got a craving for watermelons all of a sudden._

Just then, the door to the creative office slammed open, and Austin and Angle emerged triumphantly from the room marked 316, waving a bunch of papers around.   
"We've got the single! Woo!" Angle celebrated. "Oh, it's true, it's true."   
"If you want to look at the song that me and that sumbitch have written--What? I said, if you want to look at the song that me and that sumbitch have written, give me a hell yeah!" Austin demanded. Mulder walked over, darting wary looks at the two muscular macho men, before meekly snatching the papers from the duo without giving any hell yeah's and beginning to read the "extremely creative original song" that the two had composed for Seven Degrees Celsius's first ever single.   
"Our names are Seven Degrees Celsius, and we're a bunch of sissies! What? I said we're a bunch of sissies! What? What? Oh, it's true, it's true. We're a bunch of girly men. What?! I said we're a bunch of girly men, 'cuz we're a boy band! What? I said we're a boy band. The truth hurts. It's true, it's true. What? What? What? What? I said, what? It's true, it's true. We're a boy band, and we're sissies! It's true, it's true. What? What? What? What? What? What? Oh, it's true, it's true..." Mulder stopped reading, as he shot incredulous looks at both Austin and Angle, who had been nodding along to the "lyrics" at a beat only they knew about. Angle, meanwhile, stopped singing along to the "song" the two creative geniuses had composed, long enough to ask, "Why'd you stop reading? Keep going, there's about a hundred more of those. Oh, it's true, it's true!" Mulder resisted an urge to throw the lyrics onto the floor and stomp on them till they were nonexistent, before replying, tight-lipped, "I think I've read enough." 

Just then, Kelly dashed into the room, her long black coat flying behind her as she burst out excitedly, "I got it! I got us the deal!" Mulder felt his heart sinking.   
"Oh, great," he muttered under his breath. "Now we've got a contract, and no song!" He turned to Austin and Angle, ready to send them off on the same mission as Lita, before Mysterio spoke up reasonably, "But we don't have a song. How are we going to shoot that music video?" Jericho glanced up, and spoke proudly, "Do you want to wait a couple of days for me to write a single? I _am_ a huge rock star, you know!" Mulder didn't have that kind of time; the show was only supposed to take two weeks to complete, and they were already well into the second week.   
"No; you see, not only are we on an extremely tight budget, but we're also on an extremely tight schedule," he explained. "Besides, I told you three countless times before, we want a pop song, not a rock song." Shrugging, Jericho turned around and continued viewing _Baywatch,_ withdrawing his offer. Mulder thought over his options, but there really weren't that many, so he finally came to the conclusion that they had no choice except for one.   
"Come on, Seven Degrees Celsius, let's get to work," he ordered. Jericho, Helms, and Mysterio looked up, startled.   
"What? You mean we are going to shoot a music video anyway?" Helms wanted to know.   
"Yes." Mulder nodded firmly.   
"But we don't even have a single," Jericho pointed out logically.   
"Well, then, we're just going to have to rip off the song you three have been practicing your pop dance routine to," Mulder retorted. He paused, before dropping the bomb. "NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye."And he motioned for the trio to follow him out of the studio.   
"And don't even _think_ of fainting, you three!" Mulder warned. 

* * *

Jericho, still decked out in his ultra-preppy clothes and a backwards baseball cap, stood smack dab in the middle of a fairly well-equipped set. Beside him were the bleach-blonde Helms and eyebrows-pierced Mysterio, both shoved into equally hideous outfits. Mulder, sitting on a director's chair with Kelly by his side, announced dramatically, "And...action!" Someone pressed a switch, and the opening notes of 'NSYNC's pop single began blaring full-volume out of a row of speakers.   
"Bye bye bye..." the chorus began. Meanwhile, the trio standing awkwardly in the middle of the set froze upon hearing the dismayingly familiar chorus of girly voices, and promptly readied themselves to faint.   
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Mulder hollered. "Start lip synching! Start dancing!" Seven Degrees Celsius, meanwhile, turned blank eyes on their director. Mulder felt like tearing his hair out in frustration, as, beside him, Kelly sweetly offered an Excedrin pill and a glass of water.   
"Thank you," Mulder murmured gratefully, taking the medication from her and swallowing them. Feeling better, Mulder turned and focused his attention on the frontman of Seven Degrees Celsius, deciding to break them down individually rather than as a group. "C'mon, Jerky! You're the supposed pretty boy of the band, now do something a pretty boy would do!" Jericho turned blankly, a befuddled expression on his face as he digested Mulder's words.   
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked, as a recording of "Bye Bye Bye" continued to be sung, um, harmonized, um, droned, in the background. "Blow kisses or something?"   
"How should I know?" Mulder snapped impatiently. "Do the grind or something!" Jericho hesitated.   
"Um...isn't that kind of...um, you know...Patrick Swayze-slash-stripper-ish?" he finally ventured in a tiny voice. Mulder made an impatient noise deep down his throat, before he pointed out in an irritable voice, "Yes, well, seeing as how you recently treated all fans to the Candian version of _The Nutcracker..."_   
"Eh...you've got a point there," Jericho admitted, and reluctantly launched into a stunning rendition of what he thought was the grind. Kelly, meanwhile, who was leaning over in her chair to watch, tilted a bit too far and fell off her metal folding chair, getting dumped unceremoniously onto her face.   
"Ouch," she grumbled. Just then, the chair itself collapsed onto her back. As the loud metallic clattering noises resounded, Jericho paused amid his newly dubbed Huge Rock Star Wiggle, and looked over in concern in the direction of the fall.   
"I'm okay!" Kelly called out from underneath a heap of metal. 

* * *

Kelly, with her arm in a cast and sling, watched as Jericho continued to do his version of the grind and badly attempting to lip sync to "Bye Bye Bye." Meanwhile, Helms and Mysterio stood on either sides of him, not knowing what else to do and half-heartedly attempting at lip synching every now and then. Mulder, having taken care of Seven Degrees Celsius's frontman, now moved on to the other two members.   
"All right, you two," he called out, motioning to Helms and Mysterio. "You two, get beside Jericho and start dancing! We're trying to shoot a pop music video here, so start dancing and look pretty!"   
"But I don't know how to dance like that--" Mysterio started to protest, with Helms mimicking his actions.   
"Doesn't matter; improvise or something," Mulder ordered irritably. Mysterio and Helms looked uncertainly at each other, then dared a glance at the wiggling and twirling Jericho, and shrugged.   
"Okay, then," Mysterio finally murmured hesitantly, as, taking deep breaths, the two prepared to "dance". To Jericho's left (camera-wise), Mysterio promptly started going into convulsions, while to Jericho's right, Helms began to hump the air. Jericho, meanwhile, just kept on doing The Huge Rock Star Wiggle, much to the delight of a now bandaged Kelly. 

* * *

Fortunately for Seven Degrees Celsius and Mulder, the dancing part of the video shoot was finally done, and Mulder had shipped off the footage to the editors who were going to cut out some of the more embarrassing moments and make it appear as though the trio was actually dancing on walls and ceilings. Now came the supposedly easy part--shooting the marionette scene. As the group entered the new studio, Helms glanced around awestruck at the setting, and beamed.   
"Hey, cool, a real studio and everything--I feel like a total movie star," he chirped brightly, dancing inside. "Wow, is that a real Lès Paul?" Walking over, he bent down and clutched at the instrument lovingly.   
"Gee, wonder who left behind all the pyro equipment--I guess a real rock band must've rented this studio out before us," the superhero guessed. He didn't have to ponder over this for long, though, when Kelly got curious and decided to check out the flash pots.   
"Hey, what does this do?" Kelly wanted to know. In typical Kelly fashion, she acted before getting her question answered, and went ahead and pressed the switches anyway. 

"Yeowch! My butt!"   
There was a burst of fireworks, as Jericho and Mysterio's eyes bugged out, before they shot sympathetic looks at where Helms was, clutching said sore spot. Kelly, who had set off the pyro right behind Helms's, um, behind, looked down guiltily as Helms turned around to glare at her.   
"Oh, oops," she mumbled. "Sorry." Turning her attention somewhere else, she asked, "Hey, what does this do?" Another burst of fireworks.   
"Ouch! Kelly, quit setting my butt on fire!" Helms complained, hands laced protectively over said area of his body. Kelly shrugged.   
"Sorry," she apologized automatically. 

"Ahem."   
Everyone turned around to look at Mulder, clearing his throat pointedly.   
"Can we please just get this over with?" he wanted to know. Jericho shrugged, and started to walk over to him.   
"Yeah, sure," he began to say, passing by Helms and Kelly. "I mean, we would all like to go home, and--Ow! My hair!" Jericho's hand automatically shot up to his scalp, as Kelly guiltily withdrew one arm, the one responsible for pulling at Jericho's red-tipped golden mane.   
"Sorry," she apologized. It was almost a routine for her now. "Hmm, guess those weren't extensions, after all."   
"Right, they're not extensions," Mulder remarked tiredly. He then handed over a marionette control to Kelly, as he said, "Just get into position as the puppeteer, okay?" Jericho and Helms were instantly on guard.   
"Wait...wait a minute," Helms began to say.   
_"She's _the one who's going to be hoisting us into the air?" Jericho choked out, fear clearly evident in his voice. Kelly looked insulted.   
"Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?" she wanted to know, pouting. "I mean, I'll do just as good a job as Rachel or Lita would have done!" 

**Five Minutes Later...**

"Ouch!" Mysterio complained, rubbing his sore bottom. Kelly peeked over sheepishly from where she'd dropped him onto his behind in a rather unceremonious fashion.   
"Oops, sorry," she apologized. 

* * *

Thankfully for the three WWE Superstars, their show was wrapped up on schedule, and the trio got to go home--and as far away from Kelly Bundy as possible--afterwards, so that they could change out of their silly matching outfits, Mysterio could get his eyebrow rings taken out (he'd grown to like them, but the damn things wouldn't stop jiggling!), and Helms, after seventeen consecutive trips to the shower and the hair salon, finally managed to wash all the banana blonde dye out of his hair. 

Two months later, when the WWE episode aired, the viewers were treated to a spectacular masterpiece which depicted, amongst other things, Rachel getting demoted to answering machine operator, Lita's thong (for the men), a crazy redheaded chick in Lita beating the living crap out of some motorist and then hijacking his Benz to beat up a snotty executive, the three WWE Superstars doing aerobics, Kelly in a tiny little minidress for the men, and for the ladies, a trio of tanned and well-muscled young men clad in tiny Spandex shorts and flimsy little tank tops, all hot and sweaty as they jumped around and tried to keep up with their annoying aerobics instructor. They were also treated to a completely butchered version of 'NSYNC's "Bye Bye Bye" music video, which Mulder had half-heartedly attempted to disguise by changing the song name to "Hi Hi Hi." 

Naturally, Jericho, Helms, Mysterio, Mulder, and the XYZ Network got their asses sued off by 'NSYNC for ripping off their song. Meanwhile, as Mulder was busy sifting through lawsuits and legal documents, a "very mysterious fire" broke out at the Miami summerhouse where 'NSYNC was staying at while shooting their newest music video. The cause of the fire was supposedly the types of flash pots and pyro one would find at a rock concert, such as KISS, Creed, or, if we may be so bold as to go out on a limb here, the type of fireworks found at a WWE wrestling event. But fortunately for 'NSYNC (or unfortunately, depending on where a person stands for teenypop), the boy band had been out wrapping up the video shoot, and nobody got hurt. 

* * *

**~ The End ~** (Or is it? Dun dun dun!) 


End file.
